


Wanna Be Your Friday Night Sweet Ride

by TaleWeaver



Series: TGIF [2]
Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Gen, Other, Swearing, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-02
Updated: 2013-02-27
Packaged: 2017-11-20 02:35:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/580336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaleWeaver/pseuds/TaleWeaver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collection of one-shots/drabbles in response to ficprompts/discussion posts on be_compromised livejournal, usually the regular friday discussion/prompt/recs. (which may one day be absorbed into/mined shamelessly for longer fics.)<br/>This is the Adults-only edition; 'It's Friday I'm in love' holds the G and PG ratings of same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Aspects of Love

NOTE: This was originally released as part one of 'Aspects of Love', but I've since decided that since that didn't have a real plotline anyway, I might as well just shift it to here.

**originally written for the be_compromised 2012 promptathon of epicness**

_PROMPT: ‘Cos I'm 0 to 60 in three point five_  
Baby you got the keys-  
Now shut up and drive’ 

**Also inspired by this picture: bit(dot)ly(slash)NLzS7D WARNING: NSFW!**

Nattie Remus roared into the local racing scene four weeks ago on a motorcycle, stalking her way through the crowds in knee-high stiletto-heeled boots. Even by California standards, she’s young, but she’s no jailbait; her fresh young face contrasts with a demeanor that is confident, not cocky, and the way she moves, liquid and graceful, proclaims that this is a woman who knows who she is and what she wants. You can make your best moves, but you won’t get anywhere unless she’s already decided to have you.

Cam Bartholomew is one of the old men of the scene, already edging out of his mid-twenties. He drops out of sight every so often, no one’s sure whether it’s for legit employment or jail, and something about his quiet self-control puts most people off asking. He’s just as good at making the cars work as he is driving them; he’s not one of the hotshots, that everyone wants to beat. He won’t race unless he feels like it, or thinks it’ll be a challenge. But if you **do** beat him, you’ll instantly gain a kind of cred that never wears off.

The first night he and Nattie are at the same place and the same time, their eyes meet across a crowded parking lot. Their eyes hold, and they both smile. They spend the rest of the night circling closer and closer, and constantly looking for each other – no shy, flirting glances, that skitter away and back when the other isn’t looking. They want to observe each other, and they each want the other to know it.

This isn’t a game ( _are we? should we?_ ), it’s a negotiation ( _when and where?_ ).

It goes on until 3AM, when a fight breaks out at the same time the distinctive red and blue lights start flashing along tonight’s designated race route.

Cam swears fluidly and pungently as his supposed friend and - more importantly right now, ride for the night - takes off without him. He’s been hanging out with the college boy ever since he came on the scene; Jimmy is the son of a talented biochemist that a group of businessman based in Colombia have been trying to recruit into their employment for several years now.

He’s calculating his chances of avoiding arrest on foot – they aren’t good – when an idling engine catches his ear. He turns to find the redhead who’s been making eyes at him all night straddling a Ducati with an authority that no other teenage girl he’s ever met could muster. 

He can’t help but chuckle under his breath as they line up at the MacDonald’s drive-thru. But he still pays for her meal as well as his own. She drives just to the other end of the mini-mall, and the only other shop-front still open at this hour.

“Why here?” he asks, as they sit down on the cheap, sturdy table of the all-night laudromat, blinking under the harsh fluorescent lights.

She shrugs one shoulder elegantly as she munches away on her fries. “The restaurant was full of stupid drunk people. I like the quiet.”

“And if the cops drive past? We’re only a few blocks away from the race.”

“It’s a laundromat, we have clothes to be washed.”

“I’ve only got what I’m wearing.”

Nattie shrugs again. “So wash those.”

Cam grins at her, and shucks his clothes unselfconsciously. His battered leather jacket goes on the table, along with the wallet and phone from his jeans pockets, while his T-shirt and jeans go in the machine. His jeans have grease smudges on them, and there’s a few specks of blood on his shirt from the left hook he gave the dumbass who tried to drag him into the fight, so he lays out some spare change to get some washing powder from the machine on the wall. His worn purple boxer shorts slide easily over his butt and the tops of his thighs as he moves back to the table to take another gulp of Coke. He hides a grin in his waxed paper cup as he hears the slide of fabric behind him, and wonders what his companion’s wearing beneath the cherry red tank top and A-line denim mini.

He turns around, and nearly drops the cup. As he carefully sets it back on the table, Nattie steals several of his fries. She looks completely unconcerned at the fact that she’s put **all** her clothing in the machine.

Cam slides out of his boxers, adds them to the load, and starts the machine going, before he wraps an arm around Nattie’s waist from behind, and draws her into the partly-hidden corner at the end of the row of washing machines.

Natasha Romanoff is barely twenty, and hasn’t had sex since she left the Red Room; before that, she only had sex under orders. She’s already skilled enough that she doesn’t need it to complete a mission, whether intelligence or assassination. Nattie Remus is eighteen, and has an instinct for not only selecting exactly the right man to suit her mood, but getting them to give her exactly what she needs.

Natasha Romanoff doesn’t have much of a sex drive, only enough to make her marks think that she wants them. Not enough that she actually **does** want them. Nattie Remus, however, has a sex drive that roars like the engine of her cycle. She’s very picky about who she has between her legs, but once she finds someone she wants, she doesn’t waste time. 

Natasha Romanoff doesn’t have sex in a brightly-light laundromat at 3:30AM, but Nattie Remus does. 

Nattie Remus strips off everything except her boots, wraps her arms around Cam’s neck as he lifts her off the ground and spreads her legs for him, and fucks Cam without inhibition or shame. He thrusts in and out of her smoothly, striking hard and deep, all the while growling into her neck like a racing engine. Nattie gasps in his ear, a MacFeast still scenting her breath, as she demands _more more more_ and rubs her aching breasts against his hard chest in rhythym with his pistoning cock. He feels better between her thighs than her rumbling, vibrating motorcycle, and both her orgasms make every cell in her body quake while she sinks her teeth into his shoulder to keep from screaming.

Then she sits on top of the tumble-dryer as their clothes run through it, in full view of whoever might be passing by. She wraps her arms and legs around him, holding him close, and he sinks inside her and just stays there, and they let the machine do most of the work. He manages to last through the whole spin cycle, but the second the alarm buzzes they come simultaneously, and it hits both of them so hard that Clint and Natasha forget whoever else they were supposed to be tonight.


	2. Siren in Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for be_compromised's Valentine's day mini-promptathon. For the prompt 'Valentine's Day Massacre'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: gore, language, and Clint getting horny over Natasha.

Detective Clint Barton, NYPD, grimaced as he strode down the hallway to the so-called Grand Ballroom. Before tonight, the Browning had been one of the hottest new boutique hotel/event spaces in the city. No telling what would become of it after something like this, though. He was pretty sure there were more reporters – not just the fucking paparazzi, but **real** journalists – lined up outside than when he’d moonlighted as security during the last Tony Awards (he liked the theatre, and he liked music, which added up to occasionally liking musical theatre. So what?).

There was a small army of white-puffy-jumpsuit clad CSI’s milling around the entrance to the ballroom, looking like a flashmob of mushrooms or something. One of them stepped in front of him, and Clint stopped as he recognised Sitwell. He offered Clint one of the disposable face masks, and Clint raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“Jacobs already threw up on our crime scene,” Sitwell informed him matter-of-factly. “Can’t risk any more contamination. Just a warning, Barton... this one is really bad. I truly don’t think I’ve seen anything like this.”

Clint nodded in acknowledgement. Jacobs had been a CSI for several years, he wasn’t some green around the edges rookie. Sitwell had been personally trained by Grissom, over in Vegas, and Clint had managed to get a few stories out of him about some of the truly disgusting shit he’d had to process back in Sin City. If Sitwell said it was bad... then it was **really** bad.

Clint looked over Sitwell’s shoulder, and saw that the ballroom doors were wide open. It was pretty much the only thing on this floor; it had to be, to justify the ‘ballroom’ part, because this building had been put up after ground space on the island had become a premium. Clint could see what looked like a large swathe of red-on-white flocked wallpaper... but he’d looked up the hotel’s website on his phone on the way over, to familiarise himself with the building, and the ballroom had plain white walls.

That wasn’t wallpaper – it was blood splatter.

Clint took a deep breath, and walked into a place that looked like prom night as designed by Clive Barker. He swallowed experimentally, but battlefields from his Army days had prepared him; no saliva flooded his mouth or throat, no bile burned in his oesophagus.

“Barton. Don’t step too far away from the doors; we’re going to be having enough issues processing the scene as it is.”

Clint turned his head to find Phil Coulson, his occasional partner and always superior (hey, he was man enough to admit it). Coulson was in a weird sort of position; he’d been made Captain, then almost fatally injured chasing a psychotic terrorist with a Norse mythology fetish. By the time he came out of the coma, his position had been filled, but he’d still earned his rank. Normally he would have just been transferred to a precinct with an opening, but Coulson possessed a truly scary talent for networking, information-gathering, and just plain getting shit done behind the scenes (Clint had heard the phrase ‘secretly a ninja’ used more than once). Chief of Police Fury wanted Coulson close at hand, so he’d dug up an old, never-used-nowadays but still legally valid ranking, and made Phil Coulson Head of Detectives for the precinct... and no one questioned why he had his own office, equal standing with Captain Hill, and reported only to the Chief.

“Coulson. What the fuck happened?” Clint asked in bemusement, looking around.

“Valentine Day’s party. Supposed to be for the members of a high-society club combined with some sort of board of directors meeting. Just as the cocktail hour was ending, some smoke grenades got rolled in, and everyone dropped. A couple of the guests were more resistant than the others, and woke up roughly an hour later to find the room like this.” Phil nodded to the long swirls of blood on the floor, sprays of blood across the walls, and various bloody **things** that Clint didn’t want to look at too closely scattered around on the tables.

“Wait, not all the guests were killed?”

“No, the majority are being shipped to hospital still unconscious. There were maybe fifty people in here; six are dead. Three have been sedated because of extreme shock, and one’s actually able to talk to us, which is how we have most of our infomation right now. Judging by the extreme redecoration, someone was making a point.”

“Any ID’s yet? From... well, the heads themselves look intact,” Clint muttered, staring at the display on what must have been a hors d’oeuvres table. “Anyone find the hands? Or, y’know, fingers?”

“The CSI’s are still cataloguing which body parts seem to have been originally joined.”

“You said there was a witness – able to talk to us after waking up in **this**?”

“Mmm-hmm. Natasha Romanoff, freelance translator.”

Clint followed Coulson’s nod to the far corner, where a woman with platinum hair in a 1920’s style bob was wrapped in a silver Mylar blanket, carefully turned to face away from the gory scene.

“Is it okay if I take off my wig, now?” her voice drifted across to Clint. It was low and husky and something about it made the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stand up.

As a CSI carefully slid the bob from her head, blazing red curls tumbled down, just past her shoulders, and the mylar blanket slipped open enough that Clint could see the dress beneath.

It was enough to make his breath stall in his lungs.

Bright red silk clung to her obsessively, from shoulder-straps to bustline and torso to hips and thighs, all but plastered to her incredible figure.

Clint was thankful his suit jacket was still buttoned, so Coulson couldn’t detect the rapidly hardening erection he was getting over a traumatised witness. Clint already knew he was going to dream about this woman tonight; he just hoped he wouldn’t wake up to wet sheets like back in high school. 

Then he caught sight of a rough edging of white along the bottom, and understood: before the smoke bombs rolled, her dress had been white, to match the wig. She was literally dressed in blood.

Clint wasn’t sure what it said about this woman – or even more disturbingly, about **him** – that he stayed half-hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's going to be at least one sequel to this, probably over in the general-admission 'It's Friday I'm in love'. I also have a plotbunny that wants me to feed it and expand this universe for casestory! Still battling valiantly, though.


	3. For they have a language, on their very own

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> takes place after 'Siren in Red'. Detective Clint Barton has a breakthrough in the Valentine's Day Massacre... but refuses to see all the implications of his theory - though he won't admit it, even to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for the be_compromised Valentine's Day promptathon: (see the end notes) Title comes from the lyrics of the song 'Say it with Flowers', performed by Dorothy Squires. There's also a vague reference to the manga/anime _Gunslinger Girl_.
> 
> WARNING: I've pretty much decided to try expanding this AU into a full-blown fic for casestory round 3. So if you don't want to be spoiled for 'Say it With Flowers' you might want to turn back now.

Detective Clint Barton leaned against his desk without actually sitting on it, and stared intently at the whiteboard. Six photos stretched in a line across the top.

Two weeks now, and they had no clues to who had perpetrated what the press had quickly dubbed ‘the St Valentine’s Day massacre’.

But Clint now had an idea... a really weird idea.

“Barton?”

“I was trying to clear my mind last night,” Clint told Coulson abruptly. “Went back to my old Agatha Christie collection. Gave me a strange idea.”

“What sort of strange idea?”

“All the guys at the party were wearing flower corsages – y’know the lapel stuff, what are they called?”

“Boutinneres.”

“Yeah, that’s it. So I went back and read the reports of what each guy had – they came with the invites. CSI hasn’t put it together yet, I don’t think, they’re still too backed-up with all the blood and body parts from the initial scene. But all the dead guys had the same flower arrangement in their buttonholes – Oleander, Cypress, and Coltsfoot – and **only** the dead guys had those particular flowers. Did you know that back in Victorian days, there was a language of flowers? People used bouquets and arrangements as a kind of code.”

“No, I didn’t. So what do those flowers mean?”

Clint smirked coldly. “Beware, Death, and ‘Justice shall be done to you’. I don’t think this was an elimination carried out by a gang, or even organised crime. I think this was a professional hit, performed by one killer for hire.”

“Wait – you think there was **one** doer?”

“Mmm-hmm. I think these guys all came up on the shit list of just one very resourceful, and very, **very** , skilled assassin. Who was either instructed to take them all out together, or saw an opportunity to make a clean sweep. See, I went back to the surveillance photos of the funerals, too, and all our dead guys had one specific arrangement sitting right next to or underneath the photo display. Of birdsfoot, rudbeckia, rue, and asphodel. Meaning revenge, justice – again, disdain, and the last one? ‘My regrets follow you to the grave’. I think these guys had something else besides the flowers in common, Coulson – I think at some point, they did something together. Something **really** nasty, and our assassin was hired to kill them for it. We find out their festering little secret, and we find out who might have paid for the hitter.”

“What about tracing the hitter?”

“I was Army – and not just rank and file, I got assigned on some serious shit. I couldn’t pull off stuff like this. You were armed forces too, right?” Clint looked at Coulson and stated, “Special Forces?”

Coulson shrugged noncommittantly. “I have some acquaintance with their training, and I don’t know of anyone who could do this as a solo act. You’re hinting around an intelligence operative – the type produced by the mysterious agencies from the _Bourne Identity_ movies.”

“Don’t think the regular intelligence services could get away with running the kind of program that would produce someone like this, even outside the US... but what about Cold War or just past it?” Clint ignored the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Something like the KGB, but before the FSB. When the USSR broke up, human trafficking skyrocketed – all the orphans from the various territories, and no money to care for them any longer. A huge pool of children and teenagers, no one to care whether they lived or died, and no records if they disappeared...”

“Hell, there’s some organized crime or terrorist outfits that could pull off something like that,” Coulson sighed. “I’ve heard rumours of the Mafia using child assassins in Italy – and worse, the government counter-terrorism agency actually ended up using similar methods at some point against Pandania.”

“Jesus,” Clint muttered in disbelief, before taking a deep breath. “So maybe one person could pull this off, if they were trained by an outfit with that kind of ruthlessness?”

“I really don’t like to think that sort of program could exist in the world, but I don’t think there’s any avoiding the idea right now,” Coulson sounded like Clint felt, even with his normal bland tone of voice.

Clint took a sip of coffee, thankful all over again that the Mayor had gifted the Second Precinct with a cappucino machine after they brought in the Butcher of Budapest. The warmth and scent of the drink helped soothe his roiling stomach.

Clint carefully didn’t think about the flowers he’d received from Natasha Romanoff two days ago, that sat on his dining table at home.

White dittany of Crete, Arum, tuberose, purple columbine, and jonquil.

Passion, Ardour, dangerous pleasures, ‘resolved to win’, and ‘I desire a return of affection’.

He’d heard Blondie’s _‘One Way or Another’_ on the radio in this morning, and had started to fucking **blush**.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for the be_compromised Valentine's Day promptathon: _Natasha understands the language of flowers_


End file.
